


Chapter 6

by Section VII (girlintheglen)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/Section%20VII
Summary: Chapter 6 is written by mrua7
Kudos: 5
Collections: The Trouble in Times Square Affair





	Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 6 is written by mrua7

Gunshots continued to ring out as Napoleon and Illya struggled in the snow, ducking as yet another bullet whizzed overhead, hitting a nearby tree.

Whoever it was was obviously a good shot, but with the falling snow and the surrounding trees, the rifle repeat was becoming more muffled.

What fate awaited them wasn’t clear, though if this kept up they would eventually freeze to death, so maybe that was the convoluted plan for their demise after all. The agents had no idea where they were being driven, if anyplace; maybe they were just being moved in circles?

Illya was gasping, struggling to breathe as he held his side, though he remained silent, he was obviously in pain.

The two men remained low, with Napoleon speaking barely above a whisper.

“Do we head towards the red light?”

“As I said earlier, we are being herded...what choice do we have? If we head away from it or towards it, I suspect we will be shot at again.”

“Call it a hunch tovarisch, but I have a feeling that light isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Your hunches have gotten us into trouble before Napoleon. May I remind you that you do have a tendency to get us lost.”

“Gee thanks for that vote of confidence…Illya what exactly is lost at this point?”

“True. Whither thou goest then.”

“We head towards the light then.” Napoleon suddenly realized that might be a bit prophetic as people with near-death experiences have described being drawn towards a light, though not a flashing red one.

As Kuryakin rose he hissed, that was his first acknowledgement that his pain was increasing.

“You okay?”

“Really? You need to ask?” Illya pointed in the direction of the flashing light. “Just go.”

Solo helped support his partner as they weaved around the trees. The snow was falling heavier now with large flakes quickly covering their tracks.

They heard another gunshot in the distance, but it seemed as though their deadly shepherd may have lost sight of his wandering sheep.

As they finally emerged from the woods they finally saw the source of the flashing light.

It sat atop the roof of a red pickup truck; the vehicle was just sitting there idling. Attached to the front of it was a snowplow.

It seemed as though the driver had just stopped and was just sitting there on a snow covered road.

The agents staggered towards the vehicle, with Napoleon tapping on the passenger side window.

The door opened wide and inside was a rather unexpected sight.

Sitting behind the steering wheel was a rather robust man with a full head of white hair and quite a long beard.

He was wearing what looked like a pair of red long john underwear, suspenders and a pair of black corduroy pants.

“Ho-ho-ly smokes! What are you two doing out in this storm? You’re not wearing coats and galoshes...good way to catch your death.”

“Car accident, my friend is hurt. Could you help us?”Napoleon asked through chattering teeth.

“Why of course, hop in boys!”

Solo climbed in, helping his partner up onto the bench seat; he leaned across Illya, pulling the door shut.

The warmth from the heater in the cab brought quick relief to the half-frozen agents.

“Here,” the driver reached down below the seat, producing a thermos. “Help yourselves to some hot coco.”

“Thanks,” Napoleon gratefully accepted the thermos, unscrewing the cap and pouring out the hot libation into the plastic up. He offered it to Illya but the Russian waved it off.

The American took a sip,” Oh that’s good.” He held it out to Illya, this time insisting his partner drink.

Once tasting it, Kuryakin drained the cup.

“You boys are in need of some medical attention,” the driver said. “There’s a hospital not far from here, but it’s going to take a bit to get there because of the snowfall; haven’t had this big a storm in years. Kind of caught people off guard.”

“Yes, a hospital would be good. Thank you,” Illya finally spoke up.

Their rescuers appearance wasn’t lost on Solo and he couldn’t resist asking.

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Nick, would it?”

“Ho-ho, why yes it is. I’m sure you’re guessing that by the way I look. My name is Nicholaí Rozhdestvo, but you can call me Nick; I’ve been playing Santa for years at a local department store...hair and beard turned pure white on me a few years ago. Given my name and the look, I found a way to supplement my income since I retired. Snow plowing hasn’t exactly been lucrative for a while now.”

“Well Nick, My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo and this wretched soul is Illya Kuryakin.”

“Kuryakin? Ty russkiy?”

“Da.” Illya coughed into his hand, revealing a little more blood.

“We better get you some help!” Nicholaí put the truck into gear, heading out with the plow clearing the way for them.

“I never thought Grandfather Frost would be coming to our rescue,” Illya mumbled as he leaned against the door; he was finding it difficult to sit up at this point.

Nick let out a real belly laugh, ”Miraculous things have been known to happen; it is after midnight, so Merry Christmas boys.”

He reached forward, turning on the radio.

“Okay, Simon? Okay Okay, Theodore? Okay Okay, Alvin? Alvin? Alvin!  
Okay! Christmas, Christmas time is near Time for toys and time for cheer  
We've been good, but we can't last, Hurry Christmas, hurry fast...”

Napoleon couldn’t help but smile, “Same to you Nick.”

It was at that moment Illya slumped forward.

*************

Three men stepped up to the front door of the Claiborne House.One man wearing a heavy tweed outer coat was flanked by two men wearing black trench coats.

He reached out, taking hold of the brass wolf’s head door knocker. Above it was an engraved brass plate with an inscription;

it was a motto in Latin, “Confide recti agens,” meaning,“Have the confidence to do what is right.”

“How ironic,” Alexander Waverly thought to himself as he tapped the door knocker, making their presence known.


End file.
